Welcome to Gaia! ::

He woke with sun dusting across his frame like a hallowed light. Eyes blurry, he couldn't recall what time he had gotten to bed the night before. Only that it was late and he was drunk on stolen mead. Round, sallowed eyes blinked against the sun's assault, yet he knew he had to get up.

A few hours rest from the demon's inside him were not entirely enough to silence his waking thoughts. It was as though a soft whisper glided across his thoughts, reminding him of his failures. Seductively singing his weaknesses. A caress of worthlessness. They loved him more than he loved himself and would be the death of him one day. He knew it.

There was no stopping them. They came and went when they pleased. Haunting him seemed to be some eerie pleasure for them. The slurs and the rude remarks. The threats. The dire thoughts which plagued him in his waking hours were sometimes relentless and sometimes not. There was no pattern to them. He had no control over his own mind.

Throwing an arm out, he crawled out of bed, wincing as he did so. Eyes trailing down to his thighs, he recognized another demon's mark on his being. One of his own making. Three jagged, scabbed lines sat pronounced along his inner thigh. They had healed enough to not bleed but not so much that today's chores and various jobs wouldn't rub them raw.

He chuckled to himself as he walked slowly to the bathroom, tiptoeing thru the room full of soft snores and a few muffled dreamers. They had no concept of his misery. Of his disdain for the living world. No. They slumbered peacefully, tucked amongst themselves. The sun was rising throw unshaded window. Time was short. They would all be awake soon and he had to find a way to hide his pain.

His head screamed from the mead, and his thigh burned, but he made himself hop into the small bath chamber and scrub the nights sins off of him. He took a careful, agonizing second to gently scrub around the various marks on his body, some long healed, others in the process of healing. His fingers rested on the scars on his arm and he caressed them as one did a lover.

He didn't have much to his name but these marks. Both old and new, they were a testament to his survival. They had witnessed his demons and his agonizing fight and his miraculous rebirth thru each one. They had silenced the awful voices, his own voice many times, and let him breath in a stillborn silence that left him free.

Free of burden. Free of emotion. They helped him close off a part of himself that struggled to breath already. But with each swell of emotion that had been toiled under the silence and the dying sun with hatred and savagery, another stronger, deeper swell would surface. So it had become a cycle. An addiction. One that he was as powerless to stop as the sun was powerless against the moon. It was just his existence nowadays.

Rinsing the cloth, he set it aside and walked over to the large brass plate that served a mirror. He stared at his face, looking for his mask. Bruised and scabbed knuckles gripped the sink as he leaned closer. He couldn't find himself in darkened glare of his reflection. And that was good enough for him. If he couldn't find himself, no one else could find him either. Maybe he could get infinitely lost inside his mind and dissapear.

Leaving the bathroom, he paused to stare at his family as they slept. His half smile was slightly twisted as he took in their slumbering features. The fact they could sleep was unfair. His hands fisted as he thought about his torturous dreams. It wasn't fair. They slept while his dreams were plagued by might.ares that would have him running.

It seemed that his emotions, having no other outlet, had taken tothe one thing they could control. His dreams. He hated dreaming. Hence the stolen mead. He could silence his emotions in his waking hours but the sleeping ones were never silenced. Which is why he barely slept.

Turning, he stormed out of the room, his quiet footsteps resounding against the empty halls. He recalled the times his mother's face had fallen when he had drug his sorry carcass in from the heat, bloody and batter from his latest fight. He headed toward the small laundry dry room, his daily chores beginning out of necessity.

Pain was a winner in all forms, it seemed. Whether he was beaten or he beat himself, pain silenced the inner demon's squabbles far longer than any other substance could. And he had tried them all. But pain. That was a glorious drug.

His smile was wicked when he thought of the effervescent peace that followed pain. It was joyous. No I ner thoughts. No emotions. No happiness. No sadness. No aching in his chest. It was released in a cathartic storm of endorphins and andreline.